The Capital of Montana Is Not Missoula

I had a lesson in humility this past week. I prepared a handout for my students that focused on capitalization. The very last sentence, which they had to fill in and complete, showed off my erudition and -- I thought -- my downright cleverness. I should have known better. The sentence read "Everyone knows the __apital of __ontana is __issoula." I had the kids going. No one knew what the capital of Montana was. "Pissoula?" I teased. "How about Bissoula?" I finally revealed what I believed to be the correct answer only to discover in my fifth period class that the capital of Montana is Helena. Someone had a map of state capitals and there it was, in print, for all to see. Smart ass teacher blows it. Just goes to show that it never pays to show off when you don't know what you're talking about. I had to apologize and admit I got it wrong. Not the first time I've made such an admission, and certainly not the last.

I finished up the writing unit this past week. After three weeks of teaching how to write the five-paragraph essay, I could take it no longer. I'd had enough. I told my students that on Thursday they would be given a prompt and would have to write an essay in class. What a blissful day that was for me. All day long, my students were quiet, the sound of the mental cogs turning was almost palpable in my little portable school room. Then, I graded the papers on Thursday night and saw what a lousy job I'd done teaching the five-paragraph essay. Oh, some of the kids did all right, but many of them blew it. The big boo-boo was not reading the prompt and answering the question. They were given a choice of writing on their favorite holiday or about a sport or activity that they're good at. Some of them wrote about two or three holidays. Some of them described how to play football. If it had been the Okaloosa Writes test they're all scheduled to take in January, their essays "off the topic" would have been "unscorable." I gave 60s and decided this was a subject we'd revisit before the state test rolls around.

Teaching a writing unit has been a chore. I don't have a book that focuses on the subject, and so have had to cobble together my own notes, create my own handouts, and come up with worksheets from various sources. I don't think I taught the subject well, and that's a burr under my saddle because writing has always been a good subject for me (as opposed to grammar). But, then again, being good at something doesn't mean you know how to teach it. I'm learning.

I continue to enjoy my quiet time in the car on the way to work. That's when I usually throw myself on the tender mercies of God, asking for the wisdom, patience and understanding that I need to do my job. I am so glad that God doesn't set us up for failure. If he gives us something to do, he'll make a way so that we can get it done. I believe that, and the knowledge has been a continuous source of strength.

I had one of my students stay after class this past week for a chat. I had asked him repeatedly to sit down and get to work during third period. By the time we sat down for our talk after the bell, he was angry and on the verge of tears. He accused me of "picking on" him, always getting on his case for talking in class when none of the other students were singled out. I pulled out my discipline record the the class this nine weeks and read him off a series of infractions -- everything from notes in agenda books, to calls to parents, to time outs and referrals to the office. There were six or eight other students in the class who had been in trouble and, thanks to my recordkeeping, I could show him that, no, he wasn't being singled out. The student's behavior was markedly better the following day and he did well on the essay test -- which also proved the point I'd made in our talk: it wasn't his academic progress that was the issue, it was his behavior.

Ed and I went camping this weekend. I had Friday off for Veteran's Day, so we took off Friday morning and went down to Rocky Bayou, about half an hour from home. I was disappointed when we arrived at our campsite -- a dirt square corralled by wood fence on three sides and slap up against another site. Turned out our neighbors had two small children, and camping with kids next door is noisier than having chihuahuas for neighbors. There's not much to do when we go camping, but I guess that's the whole point. Camping allows us to get bored enough so that we finally relax. On Saturday, Ed fished in the bayou and in the weedy lake, and I looked on from my aluminum camp chair with a book in hand. I read Caddie Woodlawn and enjoyed it tremendously, then started on a contemporary crime novel. I love the way that reading for extended periods of time is like getting swept into a timeless stream. An hour would pass before I looked up and realized the shadows were getting deeper. I'd watch Ed fly fish, then dip back into my book. When the sun went down, we pulled our chairs around the fire pit and roasted wienies and marshmallows. When we go camping, there's not much to do except read, fish, nap and sit in front of the fire. Suits me fine. I let go of time and let it wash over me, forgetting about the march of minutes that cut my pace during the week.

Yesterday, we had two couples pull into the space next to ours. I was amused to see them set up a kind of camping kitchenette -- a big aluminum counter with a pot rack. Next time I looked over, there was a row of colored dishtowels and -- I swear to you -- a wooden dishrack like something from Ikea. They even had a yellow kettle on their Coleman stove. I wondered if I got close enough, would I see an oriental rug spread in front of the fire pit? They even had fancy tripods to hold their lanterns. Yuppie campers. They stayed up late last night playing poker and carrying on a lively conversation, so Ed didn't feel too badly when he got up to split wood for a fire at 6 a.m. They were nice enough folks. Strange, but nice.

Most of the campground was occupied by old people in large motorhomes. I noticed tags from Illinois and Michigan and made the connection: Florida in November = snowbirds. Ed and I chuckled over one couple who sat, nice and warm in their brightly-lit motorhome while a fire danced cheerily in the fire pit outside. This morning when the diesel behemoths moved out, you could feel the earth shake and smell the fumes. It's not camping, but it comes close. You owe yourself a little comfort, I guess, when you reach that age. Maybe we'll be lucky enough to watch our campfire from a motorhome when we get old.